


You Know It’s All In My Heart

by memphisgreen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Cult Leader!Tom, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love at First Sight, M/M, Sensing A Common Theme Here, journalist!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 04:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memphisgreen/pseuds/memphisgreen
Summary: And he decided, listening to Peter’s tapes, the quiet humility in his voice, the tremble of his nerves bleeding through the recording, that he would seek, and in his pursuit find the truth.Title taken from Dancing Days by Led Zeppelin from the album, Houses of the Holy.





	You Know It’s All In My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Because. Led Zeppelin.

**After,**

  
  


His hand trails across the row of heads, all bowed in observation of him. Faded green light and dust motes, salvation and aching reality. And above them, He stands. He, who is Warmth. Enlightenment. Above all, He, who is a merciful Lord.

Bated breath and marvelous tears and the feeling that this is where they are meant to be, the only place they can be.

He exhales. The tremble of His breath, the weight of their happiness floats in that second, in that quiet exhalation of air. They keep their own locked in chests, bar hearts from racing, holding the collective thrum of beats to themselves.

His lover comes, the golden one, the blessed. He walks in on hope and light, soft where sharpness lies tangled in the twist and flow of their faith. The wait, so long, and now they’ve been gifted, been asked to open their hearts and receive. Finally, the circle is unbroken, the snake will open wide and reclaim itself.

  
  


**Before,**

  
  


Harry climbs through the tangle of wilderness, unfamiliar with the terrain, only knows the urban jungle of his metropolis. The swell of forest and the heat of the sun beat a sharp rhythm in his tensetight chest. The heat is almost intolerable, the humidity clings to him, soaks into his hair where it’s tied into a bun, the small of his smooth back drips. He’s unfamiliar with this kind of sultriness.

 _It’s an extraordinary exposé,_  Hermione had said.

 _No, it’s a clusterfuck,_ Ron had muttered when she’d left the room.

His bag bumps into his hip, _bump, bump, bump_ over every tangle of undergrowth, over the roots of trees that have seen the fall of far too many civilizations. In the end, the world repeats.

He stops, two hours in. The once sealed map that had been waiting for him at the port is spread wide open on an enormous tree. He traces the red line from A to B, scale definitely, purposefully wrong. He figures he’s about half way there, considering the landmarks he’s encountered that have been provided on the map, a gorgeous script, a careful consideration.  

He traces the intricate ‘t’, the tip of his finger riding right along the swirls. Did he write this, or one of his many followers? He slides down the trunk, finds refuge from the blistering sun beneath the shadows of massive leaves.

He pulls off his duffel and slides his backpack off the slippery slope of his arms. Water, first. Dossier, second. Wet fingertips slide across the first page, to the bullet point fact sheet that he had put together prior to his coming here. Just the basics of a rare man cobbled together between curry and lamplight.

Tom Riddle’s youthful face peers up at him. A snapshot from someone he graduated Oxford with. Some little photo that the upper class has mixed in with the junk in their attic. The last known picture of the man who was now known as Voldemort to his true and faithful followers. Pettigrew had still called him that on the tapes.

Riddle would be in his forties now.

The profile shows a jaw that could cut families apart, and yes, Harry would say beautiful. He holds court in the back of the picture, blown up to show a baleful smirk, his hands forever paused in mid gesture. Captivating. Charismatic. Manipulative.

Hermione’s voice trails along the anxiety of his mind, _You oughn’t go alone_.

Riddle’s only stipulation had been Harry’s solitary entry. Alone, the letter had said, the letter that had arrived with absolutely no postmark (he had deduced, quite obviously, that his hand was still firm in London) and the dark wax seal of a skull and snake, the same as the map. His sigal, a warped kind of ouroboros, no infinity, no wholeness.

Harry, sitting among the violent sounds of birds and insect, thinks that maybe Hermione had been right. He flips his mobile tip to tip in the space between two gulps of a slowly dwindling water supply.

Stands, raises arms to stretch a tired back and gathers his gear. The step counter on his watch is almost to six kilometers, he glances behind him, seeing trees and more trees, takes a slow breath, brow muddled in consternation, and cracks on.

Unfortunately, it takes nine more kilometers.

He thanks and curses the map in the same breath when he sees the massive compound’s gates.

He stops, crouching low behind thorny bushes and tall trees, before placing feet on the dirt that starts to surround the gates. He listens. Bird and insects and animals caterwaul around him, but he calms the hammering beat of his heart in his ears and _listens_.

There, along the same dulcet tones as guardian angels he hears chimes, only slightly louder than the tremor of his breath. Loud shrieks of children, then soft laughter of women, and he closes his eyes and sees rusted swing sets and cotton clothes over too tan skin. Freckles. Pigtails. Dirt on round faces.

His mouth turns down.

He opens his eyes, squints out over the perspiration that swells on his glasses and sees first the guards through the barb wire, then the little children that he had fleshed out in his mind's eye before they appeared before him, weaving around the guards, throwing chains of daisies around their bolt action rifles.

He can only see two guns, and they are held by the men at the gate.

But there are over twenty children milling around them, a cluster of women that number between five and ten, but they keep dashing around the children and some are even the same height as the ones they watch over.

Young. They look young.

He swallows the bile that creeps its way up his throat, pulls out a worn notepad and jots down his initial thoughts. The inside cover lists features that fit along with sociopathic personalities.

Ron had wrote those down in his near illegible script the night before Harry caught his charter, all of them drunk on red wine and the miserable hurt of being parted again. Ron had laughed as he wrote, worry bleeding through the humor in his eyes.

 _It’s all you, mate_ , a startling vote of confidence in his eyes when they hugged the next morning, the same bright light of conviction that Harry carried since he had first heard the name Tom Riddle.

Harry feels purpose beat back his anxiety. His contribution is the truth, in whatever form that may be. Tom Riddle’s commune boasts the truth, the light, and the way entrenched behind barb wire and guards, so secretive that even the locals wouldn’t comment on it. It had taken one member seven years to get out, and Harry would find the truth.

He pulls the white kerchief from the side pocket of his backpack, wraps it around his wrist and walks toward the gate. The guards notice him immediately and he hears the bolts being pulled back, the children do too. They stop, move back to guardians.

But there is no fear on any of their faces.  

Harry puts his hands up, the synonymous gesture of surrender. He stops immediately, makes his face as blank as he can, squints up at the hilltop to the guards that stand alert at the other side of the gate.

“Harry Potter, I’ve been given invitation by Tom Riddle.” His voice rings out in the quiet, no laughter now, the children are being shuttled away, single form like a rope holds them together. Harry stops breathing, turns his head slightly toward the labyrinthine forest behind him. Quiet.

“Come slowly to the gate, keep your hands up, please.” The manners catch him quick, even more odd. Harry does as he’s told, cataloguing the guards as he makes his way up the dirt path.

The one speaking, his accent, British, the skin at his collar, buttons undone in the heat, was slightly paler, a blend of color from neck to chest. His hair, buzzed, no jewelry on his person. He carefully straps the gun over his shoulder, the daisy chain falls to the ground in the process, and keeps his eyes on Harry. The other guard stands attentive, in tune to his partner.

Harry hears the distinct sounds of a pulley, a creak and the gate slides slowly back.

“Stay where you are, keep your hands up.” British comes forward, the other keeps his gun at the ready, not pointing to Harry, not yet, but he is alert, rigid. British does a general pat down on Harry, an efficient swipe. He pauses at the lump of his phone in his back pocket, but doesn’t say anything. He places one warm palm on Harry’s shoulder, leads him through the gate and to the small shed that is nearby it.

“Barty, close the gate, then go call Bella.” The other, Barty, immediately springs into movement. No hesitation to follow the others command. “I’ll take your things, please.” He says to Harry.

Harry startles, panics for less than a second and starts to pull bag and backpack alike off his person. “I’ll be getting these back, I assume.” The other flashes a smile, blinding white in the tan of his face.

He nods at him, amused.

“Of course, Mr. Potter.” There’s a bin by the shed where his things are carefully placed. The guard picks it up, carries it under one strong arm.

“Follow the path to the church, it’s a big white building, little over a k tab, up the hill.” Harry glances toward his destination, and looks back, nods his thanks. That usage, military, and how big is this place? He wants his notebook but there it is, being taken into the building. When the door opens he sees monitors, a set of feet, a dark arm reaching for the bin, another couple of rifles on the wall. The door shuts, quietly, the guard never looks back at Harry.

He shakes his hand loose of the fist that it was in, a tremble of breath, his heart, a quick hammer in his too tight chest. He looks around, all quiet now, a veritable ghost town.

Little buildings dot the dirt path, some more run down than others, older. Some look well made, with glass and white paint. He sees little heads lined up in one large window, a man at the front. A school. The children fog up the glass looking at him.

Further on now, obvious dwellings, some have porches, straight back wooden chairs and thin legged tables, metal chimes that he heard outside the gates. A potted plant here and there, a section between two house where a large herb garden has been meticulously grown, small squares of thin wood on stakes identifying the plants in the raised beds.

He continues up the winding dirt road, where the houses start to dwindle and where some of the farm machinery is housed in large barns, three walls and a patched roof. Good enough for what they cover. And just beyond the worn wood of the barns, he sees the gardens. Rows and rows of vegetation, even a couple of greenhouses between crops, some small bricks buildings even further back, closer to the fenced tree line, little plumes of smoke coming from tiny chimneys.

He stops in the late afternoon sun, puts his hands on his hips, spins slowly around. Completely self sufficient. A well oiled machine. There are a lot of people working in and out of the fields, straw baskets on their arms, a handful with babies on their backs, strapped with cotton strips. Even more, coming out of the smokehouses, chopping wood opposite the farms, standing in a circle around the well.

Harry feels his trepidation grow and swell, becomes a beast inside his belly. He had thought maybe four hundred, maybe, quite possibly six. There would be children, yes of course, and there would be crops and wells and buildings and a far fetched form of civilization.

What Harry sees is awe inspiring.

The church looms at last as Harry continues up a small hill, the grass a little greener here, the sounds of workers and life a little quieter. The building is modest, one large middle, but with two smaller add ons, blindingly white, beautiful sea glass green windows all around. There’s a golden bell close by with a long chain, bees buzzing around it.

The large, dark wooden doors in the front are painted with his sigal, the snake, the skull in the same blinding white.

 _Houses of the Holy_ is a beacon in the muddled earth of this commune.

Harry feels his lip curl against his better judgement, his eyes slide back and forth across the little guided sign. His mind gone back to that little studio apartment of Sirius’ and _Oh, prongslet, they haven’t shown you this one yet?_ and what a different world it was after that.

Harry walks into the surprisingly cool air of the church, an echo of a guitar flickering in his ear.

There is no music that greets him once he closes the door behind him, no lilting piano, no somber drone of a melancholy choir. Just the buzz of air conditioning and a little deeper than that, what could only be a generator. Harry walks in on a dark wood floor, eyes straight ahead past a lovely altar to the elevated chair behind it.

Only one person there.

There are candles that flicker in the window ledges, more hang from lanterns around the room, and the green of the glass dances with the smoky shadows that cover Tom Riddle. His hand is rested on one thigh, his body leaning forward, his other hand holds a cigarette, he is bathed in white linen and unadulterated beauty. His eyes are completely on Harry.

“Bella.” His voice is gravel, it is the balm of a cool night, husky and heady. It does not echo so much as it invades the molecules and particles of the space between them.

The hand holding the cigarette lifts, points to a pew front and center. Harry watches as that arm curves back to mouth, inhale, exhale of grey smoke that curls and winds itself up and away. The mouth that blows it lifts one corner.

Harry feels a blush start on his cheeks, catches eyes with Tom and finds that he is everything and nothing like he thought. His dark eyes stay locked and Harry feels _seen_. The light bounces and refracts between them, feels like a string pulled taunt, he feels something real and solid shift inside him, beyond the truth he seeks, beyond anything he’s ever felt.

He follows his command, past pews left and right to the only one that Tom pointed out.

Harry’s eyes only leave his when another person enters the room, he looks down, feels that awful flush creep up his neck and listens to bare feet pad on the floor.

He looks and it’s a woman, older than himself, dark and beautiful, eyes somehow sucking all the light that the beauty of her face radiates. She carries a tray of two glasses, a pitcher of icy blissful water.

She defers to her lord first, liquid drowned inside of him in just four short pumps of an Adam’s apple. She watches him. She glides to Harry, lifts a full glass and hands it to him, he grips it with a murmured thanks. She slides the tray on the altar then places both hands on the top of Harry’s head, almost as if blessing him, so awkward that Harry jerks back, water splashing on his thigh, down the back of his hand and across his wrist. She shows her teeth, dark, stained, hungry. Her smile is twisted, and she nods, excited like a little girl.

Harry feels awkwardness settle onto his face but he grimaces out a smile. This woman is obviously touched. She trails one slight little hand down the side of his face, he keeps himself still. Watches her warily when he pulls his upper body away from her.

“Thank you, Bella.” She nods again, face calming, and backs away from Harry, walking back the way she came. A scant moment later he hears another door open and shut.

He places the glass down beside his feet.

Tom leans forward, flicks ash in the glass at his own feet, leans elbows on knees.

“It’s not drugged.” Harry looks at him quickly, strangely sorry for offending him. “It’s a long journey, from the village to the gates, the gates to here. Easy to get dehydrated in this climate.” He takes another puff, leans back in his chair, one leg crosses the other and closes eyes. Decadent and elegant, already dismissive, like the sun has stopped shining and Harry, gone now in the span of three heartstopping minutes, feels bereft.

Harry licks his lips. Dry. The sweat is cooling on his body, the lethargy kicks in now that he’s sat down. Incense burns behind the other man, makes this experience visceral. He hesitates still. There’s minute tremors in his hand when he reaches for the glass, slippery with condensation. The ice clinks, obvious in the chapel. He closes his eyes as he drinks, just as Tom Riddle opens his to watch.

He doesn’t stop at a sip, he gulps, greedy now that his desert has seen rain. This water is life, it’s practically heavenly to him after swallowing spit for the last two hours in this hellish heat. He curls an ice cube into his mouth, furls his tongue around the curve, lets the heat of his mouth melt it.

His eyes open, surprised at himself, at his actions. He reaches to put the glass on the tray, ice clinking one more time in this stillness.

“Go on, it’s only good for you to have more.” Harry takes a second glass, already half way through it when his eyes catch Tom’s. Another flush, he takes one last sip and brings it down close to his body.

He pulls his T-shirt away from his chest with his other hand, feels a reprieve, however slight, from the intoxicating heat and shifts on his pew. Crossing his own legs, defensive a second nature to him. His eyes scan the chapel, trying to take it all in.

“Thank you for allowing me to enter your settlement.” Harry starts in the heavy silence that follows, he rubs his forefinger over his thumb over and over, compulsively. Tom leans forward, extinguishes cigarette in ice water, _hiss_.

He gets up from his godly lounge, comes around the alter to lean up against it, bare feet scant millimeters from Harry’s trainers. He cranes his head back, watches Tom’s eyes dance across his flushed face.

“You’ve really grown over your time here. I wasn't expecting this many of you in your community, the size ... even with all the contributions your tax records show just a little over-“

“Public record, Harry. You’re here for more than that. Let’s start at the beginning as all good stories do, like your pique of interest in us.” His mouth curves naturally, indulgent. Harry feels a heat flame his face isn’t from the walk from village to gate to here anymore. The candles burn dim, make this feel more real than what it is, at least that’s what Harry tells himself.

His hair feels sticky around his face and he pushes the strands away, the swirl of dust and golden light catches his eyes, he sways. Its beautiful, it brings out the the tiny shard of light in Tom’s dark, dark eyes. It looks like destiny, it feels like nothing, weightlessness, absolution. Harry shakes his head one quick time, closes his eyes and concentrates on his breathing. It’s dehydration.

“A man named Peter contacted me, a lot of my information has been provided through him.” Harry manages to say, finally looking back up at his face. He sees, for the first time, irritation cross over Tom’s fine features. A small spot of anger radiates on his sharp cheekbones, a fire in his eyes that is tempered only by the flickering of an eerie green flame, and in the span of two seconds it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“Unfortunately, Peter was not a true believer. I sincerely hope you didn’t take his stories to heart.” His face is hurt, drawn, it makes Harry want to beg for forgiveness, hunt Peter down and make him bear the weight of his betrayal.

There’s the truth and then there’s what Tom is offering.

His limbs don’t feel languid so much as they feel lighter than ever, the tightness that had ached in his chest for as long as he can remember unravels to a straight line, his mind is clear. Miraculously clear. Tom looks at him as fully as God did his creations. Proud. Harry feels a strange sense of euphoria, of the past slipping away while he drowns in the smile bestowed on him.

He looks down at the glass now, watches a pale hand come into sight, lift it, and Tom brings it to his own sinful mouth to finish it. It looks like galaxies, like creation and myth going down as he swallows and Harry can trace origins in the hollow of his throat.

“What was in it?” A hand runs down the side of his face and because it comes to him, on the whispers of sweetness, Harry presses one dry kiss to the palm that cradles him.

“The circle. The snake. Unbroken.”

He cradles Harry close to his belly, let’s him breathe in his scent, let’s the incense, and the candles, and his slow, soft spoken words wind and work their way into every synapse, every thought that fires into Harry’s brain.

Holds out his hand and Harry takes it, lets himself be pulled up to the solidness of this man, this person bigger than himself, in all ways. The candles flicker again, and Harry feels the sway like an ocean, the dangerous waves that will sweep him undertow.

Tom puts his mouth on his, the first kiss. And Harry feels owned, feels the rightness in giving what was already owed. He clenches his hands in white linen, like the white of his church, like the white that he’s sure Tom’s soul is made of. The purity of this kiss entrances him like the click of magic that always dances just past his fingertips.

Tom leans down to nuzzle at his cheek, a warm welcome that feels like a lifetime in the making. He wraps a long arm around Harry’s back, lifts him like a doll to lay across the altar. Distantly, Harry can hear the wonderful clanging of the bell. It’s rings to the sluggish rhythm of his heart.

Minutes and seconds and lifetimes later and Tom is still kissing him, but there are more. His people. Harry’s people now and Harry smiles around swollen lips, here but not here, lost in the love and ether that he has found in these houses most holy.

Tom is speaking but the words are inconsequential, they are nothing to the hands that won’t stop touching him, to the mouth that bites and soothes between words. The only change is the static in the air, the hushed momentum of something life altering about to happen, the quiet urgency of Tom’s interrupted kisses. The only words he really hears, ” _You will witness, the only time, this first communion to be blessed.”_

The wood of the altar is cool to his bare back, he stretches, like a cat, and he moans as oil glides in dark places, so much that he feels it dripping between thighs, down legs. His clothes aren’t even an afterthought. He is Tom’s. And Tom is his. And Tom, his one, his only has anointed him. Bathed him in holy oil and placed him above all others.

His thighs are spread, and there are fingers and there is pleasure and then there is the pain, the only pain he will ever have to endure. Ever, Tom promises over heavy breathing and gasps.

“My Lord.” Harry breathes exaltation in his mouth and Tom groans and it cleanses Harry’s insides, he pushes Harry’s hand to his belly where he can feel Tom’s cock through skin and membrane, and this is the circle, this is the awning bite of the snake. This is where he was always supposed to be. Tom cradles the bones in Harry’s head and his eyes never look away, legs shake and body tightens and heart opens up and thrums and accept what his lord so graciously offers.

Tom is the mouth and Harry is swallowed whole.

Tom hisses, blesses him with his seed, and he watches those eyes catch light of the hundreds of candles, the burning love that escapes them and captures Harry, enamored with the light, the way, the truth, consumed.


End file.
